


young and dreamed of glory

by Elsin



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Rigel Black Series - murkybluematter
Genre: 5+1 Things, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe of an Alternate Universe, Fanfiction of Fanfiction, Gen, Identity Reveal, Implied/Referenced Canonical Character Death, Rigel Black Chronicles - Freeform, Rigel Black Exchange, Rigelverse, The Futile Facade, The Pureblood Pretense, egregious overuse of m-dashes and semicolons, some GoF parallels, some Rev Arc parallels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-04
Updated: 2020-05-04
Packaged: 2021-03-02 01:35:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,026
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23996869
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elsin/pseuds/Elsin
Summary: Five moments in time before the ruse was revealed, and one when it was.
Relationships: Arcturus Rigel Black & Harriett Potter | Rigel Black
Comments: 15
Kudos: 196
Collections: Rigel Black Chronicles Appreciation, Rigel Black Exchange Round 1





	young and dreamed of glory

**Author's Note:**

  * For [FeatheryMinx](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FeatheryMinx/gifts).



_i._

_January 1989_

The day of the funeral dawns bright and cold. Archie Black stands at his mother’s grave, his cousin at his side, and he cries for her and for himself and for what has been lost.

“Never again,” he says, so quietly that not even Harry hears him. Once he’s old enough—once he’s trained, and can do things himself—he’ll be a Healer, and no one else will die like this.

The sooner he can do it, the better.

_ii._

_July 1991_

They aren’t yet committed. That’s what itches at Archie, time and time again. Harry could really go to AIM, and he could go to Hogwarts.

Once their first year is done, he knows, that will change. Neither of them is a very good actor, not in the ways that matter—they can’t go back.

Potter Place has extensive grounds, with a sprawling lush back lawn. Archie is lying under a tree, looking up at the sky; next to him, Harry is absorbed in some potions book.

“You’re sure about this?” he says softly.

“Hmm?” From the corner of his eye, he sees her look up.

“I was asking—you’re really sure about this?”

Harry nods, sharp and determined. If she’s feeling doubtful, it’s buried deep down where he can’t see it. “I am. Unless _you’ve_ changed your mind?”

He should say something—he should stop this now, before it gets too far out of hand.

He doesn’t.

“No,” he says instead. “I’m still in.”

This is the last time either of them will seriously question what they’re doing before it’s far too late for them to stop.

_iii._

_June 1992_

Harry has a job this summer, _and_ she’s doing her correspondence school, _and_ whatever other potions thing she’s fallen into besides. She doesn’t have nearly as much time for Archie as she always has before; then again, she’s doing (most of) this for their ruse, and he can’t exactly begrudge her that—it’s her head that the consequences will crash down upon when if they’re caught, after all.

But Archie, too, has something he didn’t before: a friend who _isn’t_ Harry. And there are many days that find him Flooing to Diagon Alley, where Dad thinks he stays—but more often than not he meets Hermione there, and they go out into Muggle London together.

“I know you didn’t grow up in the muggle world, Harry,” she says, and Archie has long since stopped flinching at the name that isn’t his, “but on some level I still can’t quite believe that you’ve never been to the British Museum.”

Archie shrugs. “Mum never took us to places like that,” he says, and it still burns in him, calling Aunt Lily _Mum_ when his own mum is—

“What about your other relatives?”

This time he laughs. “I’ve got a muggle aunt, but she and Mum never got on. And everyone else grew up in magic—they’d have no more idea what they’re doing than I do, and _they_ aren’t eleven.”

So they go to the British Museum, and Archie’s eyes all but pop out of his head at everything that’s there.

“I didn’t know there was this much—well— _anything_ ,” he says, gesturing wildly. Hermione just laughs at him.

“There isn’t,” she says. “There’s _more_.”

At that, Archie feigns swooning, as the other visitors glare at them.

* * *

She takes him to a _movie_ , too, one called _Newsies,_ and Archie spends the whole time staring, wide-eyed. It’s like a photo, but all predetermined, and it has sound—it has _music._

Archie finds himself humming the songs for days afterwards, and just smiles and shrugs a little when Harry asks him what the music is from.

_iv._

_June 1994_

Harry writes him a letter, blunt and plain-spoken, and with each passing word Archie feels sicker and sicker. When he’s done, he slowly lowers the pages and swallows hard.

If they had never done this—nothing would’ve happened, certainly nothing like _this_ nightmare. She wouldn’t have had to deal with the Sleeping Sickness in her first year, nor the basilisk in her second, and—and—

And she wouldn’t have nearly died, _again,_ at the end of _this_ year, all while Archie’s been happily studying healing in America, safely across the ocean.

If not for the bloody ruse, he’d have been at Hogwarts, a noble but not a particularly notable student, without attention-grabbing magic; she would have been her same shining self, but the British aristocracy doesn’t give a damn about halfblood students being schooled abroad; no one would ever have taken such awful notice of her.

But they can’t switch back. Archie is becoming increasingly convinced that they’ll _never_ be able to switch back, not properly—the web is far too tangled and he’s no true potioneer and Harry can do plenty of healing spells but she has no _foundation._

* * *

When he gets home, he sweeps her into a bone-crushing hug. He needs to feel her, there and solid and _real_ in his arms.

“I’m okay,” she says, and Archie would laugh if he didn’t want to cry, because that is one of the most blatant lies he’s ever heard her tell.

“You’re not,” he says, “but that’s—Harry, you’re allowed to _not_ be okay.”

Harry shrugs, and doesn’t say anything either way. But she lets him stay by her until he has to leave for the Darian Gap.

He can only help that it helps her, at least a little.

_v._

_December 1994_

If Hermione had still thought him to be maybe-trans or perhaps just a confused, experimenting girl, Archie would never have given himself such a hyperfeminine appearance for the Yule Ball. But she _knows_ , now, has known since the summer—and that was just one more reason for her to run off to join the Blood Tournament that, she says, Harry, is _complicit_ with—and he doesn’t have to prove his gender to her anymore. He _does_ , however, have to spend the evening dodging Severus Snape.

And if he’s making eyes at Hermione all night, well—she can’t glare at him here, no matter how much she might want to. She might still be angry, but she wouldn’t give their ruse away. Not when there’s souls at stake.

Rosier is familiar with him, far more so than Archie would’ve expected for an introduction—Harry must have met him as herself, sometime, he’s sure. Still, their conversation is pleasant, and he at least gives no sign that he might be looking down on Archie for Harry’s blood status, which makes him a cut above most of the people here—and that’s just about one of the most pathetic realizations Archie’s ever had.

He leaves the Great Hall after a while; it’s stifling in there, a whole room full of lords and politicians and their children that Harry would never have been truly welcome in under her own name. Hell, _Archie_ wouldn’t be welcome either—not if he wasn’t playing the part of Rigel Black and had no ruse to uphold, no reason to censor his opinions.

AIM is an American school. It does not hold with blood discrimination. And Archie may not be Hermione, may not be as loud, may not be directly affected himself, but he cares more than he ever has about the awful things his home country is doing in the name of _purity._

Outside of the Great Hall, Hogwarts is quiet and still. Archie flits through the halls, shoes in hand; it’s not too likely he’ll step on anything dangerous here, and if he does—he’s not in the Healing tract for nothing, after all.

He eventually stops by a window on the second floor, and stands there gazing out over the grounds, frosted and glittering in the moonlight. Even with all that’s happened, even though he wishes there could be fewer lies and risks and broken trusts—he doesn’t regret going to AIM. That, at least, he wouldn’t change, not for all the stars in the sky.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” says Harry softly, coming to stand beside him.

“Yeah,” he says. There’s a fondness and wonder in Harry’s voice, and—well. Maybe it didn’t have to be this way, when they were children. But Archie knows that however much he might loathe this world, Harry wouldn’t give it up for anything.

No matter his own feelings—she isn’t him, and that has never been clearer.

“Merry Christmas, Harry,” he says.

“Happy Christmas, Archie.”

_+i/vi._

_May 1995_

When the final task of the Blood Tournament arrives, Hermione is at least talking to him again. It’s a small thing, but Archie’s grateful for it all the same.

All the original champions have been invited, and when Hermione asks him if he’d like to go with her he says yes without a moment’s hesitation. Harry didn’t want family around, of course, but Archie isn’t the one she’s trying to hide her identity from.

The final task is surprisingly simple: it’s a maze full of obstacles and traps and the first person to reach the Rod of Zuriel in the middle will be made the winner.

Harry has the most points thus far, and enters the maze first, followed by Delacour and then by Owens.

The task plays out much as the others have, and it’s all fine, until the end.

Harry reaches the center of the maze first. She reaches out a hesitant hand, and closes it around the Rod, and Archie can’t _wait_ for it all to just be over.

Of course it _isn’t._ The real nightmare, it turns out, is just beginning.

Harry’s transmission blurs out, but instead of her reappearing in front of the stands, as would be sensible, her image settles on—

“That’s a graveyard,” he whispers, clutching Hermione’s hand too tightly. To her credit, she doesn’t try to get free. “That’s—this—this is wrong.” His heart is pounding, and he can barely swallow.

“Breathe,” says Hermione. “Breathe, Archie.” She’s too quiet to be overheard, and in any case all attention is fixed firmly on the mirrors.

This is what happens: Jacob Owens goes to the graveyard willingly, though no one yet cares too much about _him,_ and his role is that of a glorified cameraman.

Not trusting that the Rod of Zuriel was Harry’s only Portkey, the kidnappers douse her in an unknown potion. Her transmission cuts out, but Owens’ is still going strong, and the whole world sees Harriett Potter tied to a gravestone—a girl who is not, could not be Rigel Black, who could only be Heiress Potter with that hair and those eyes.

Archie can hardly hear over the blood rushing in his ears.

“It’s over,” he whispers, eyes burning, and Hermione holds his hands ever-tighter.

* * *

Harry escapes, but she doesn’t Disapparate, doesn’t go anywhere _safe_ —she could have, she _should_ have done that—but instead she grabs the Rod of Zuriel, and it takes her back to Hogwarts. Back to the stage.

Archie’s feet are moving before his brain gives them permission to do that, and he’s too occupied holding Harry in his arms to fully notice the wands being drawn all around them.

“What is the meaning of this?” Lord Riddle demands, voice tight with barely-suppressed rage.

Archie draws back and looks at Harry; she’s so obviously her parents’ child. She could be no one else. And then there’s him—looking like a female, green-eyed Rigel Black—and it hits him all over again that the ruse is well and truly finished.

“I’ve got this,” he whispers to Harry, who’s staring at him, wide-eyed. She probably can’t see the Aurors all around them, he realizes—she has neither glasses nor contacts nor borrowed good vision genes. “I promise,” he adds, and she gives a tiny nod.

So he stands slowly, hands raised and palms open and empty, and turns to Lord Riddle. He lets go of his form, sheds the face of “Harry Potter” for what may well be the last time, and forces his tearstained face into his very best smile.

“My name,” he says, “is Arcturus Rigel Black. And I’m afraid you’ll have to excuse my cousin.”


End file.
